The Last Wood

August 31, 2015

tree

A family tree?
Forget it. A few burnt stumps,
some with their gibbets.

Elsewhere are green shoots
same genus, different leaves,
offering no shade.

Grafting with fresh stock
blurs memories of shared folk
shames secrets, dooms hopes.

Love’s grown, it’s bonsai’d;
its forest veils all these dreams,
dappled miniatures.

Only one bud swells,
one sweet bloom scents the arbour.
One fruit ripening.

Now waiting, with dread,
for a cold snap, for windfalls
when heavy with seed.

Fanni Mari

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: